Of the Home
by Tark's Work
Summary: Amarie mourns the departure of Finrod. May branch off into Finrod POV later.
1. Amarië

Of the Home by Tark's Work

A/N: The story of Finrod and Amarië has haunted me from the first time I read the one passage in the Silmarillion where the latter is mentioned: "...But foresight came upon Felagund...and he said: 'An oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfill it, and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.' But it is said that not until that hour had such cold thoughts ruled him; for indeed she whom he had loved was Amarië of the Vanyar, and she went not with him into exile."

So I determined to attempt to make Amarië more to me than just a name, and this was the result. The first chapter is Amarië's POV, and beware, quite angsty. Any tense confusions are intentional (or uncaught), to portray the passing of time has become distorted to either Amarië or Finrod. I have also used Sindarin names such as 'Finrod' probably even when, according to strict canon I should have used 'Findaráto'. This is simply artistic interpretation (or laziness) on my part, though I am a purist myself.

Some explanation is also required concerning Amarië's name. According to The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth, Amarië means "of the home", (hence the title) the main element being "mar", which is Quenyan for "home."

Silmarillion literacy is definitely a must for this fic.

Chapter One:

I awoke this day, to find the staggering radiance of Arien at its height. I shall never grow used to her blaze, never be accustomed to being roused by anything other than the dazzling, yet gentle and restrained mingling light of Telperion and Laurelin. Not even after so long.

Had it been so very long? I know not. Time itself seems strange and unfamiliar after the advent of Anár. My sense of time is thoroughly perplexed, unsure whether to measure the passing days, passing yen, according to the agelessness of the Eldar and Aman, or the vessel that scorches the eyes of those who seek in vain to gaze upon the Stars the Kindler had placed there in twilights before Elven memory.

Cuiviénen. I recall my own awakening there, long ago. Before sun and moon, before the sundering of the Quendi. When we all stood as one Eldar beneath the undimmed brilliance of the stars, chanting our praises and simple lays. There was nothing but the stars, and our joy.

How tranquil it seems now, how impossibly long ago. Until Morgoth, as the Noldor rightly call him, who mars all things, even now. Fear enveloped our existence, fear of a malevolent shadow that should blacken the stars from our sight.

My thoughts linger there, in abhorrence, as I gaze longingly at Ezellohar's withered trees, barely aware of my surroundings, which, save the Trees, all seem to fade to insignificance with each passing day. How I long for that time when I had walked carefree under their united gold and silver hues, never entering my mind even in my most whimsical or foreboding thoughts, that one day that it should one day be no more than a grief-stricken memory. Now what was gold is black, and what was the most brilliant of silver is deathly gray.

The Quendi, all of us, even unto the Avari and Úmanyar, are gifted with clear recollection, so that we may imprint an image in our hearts and minds, but even the memory of the Eldar wanes and fades. But if I could preserve the radiance of the two aldar in all their splendor, precisely as they were, I would not, could not. For I would see them devoured greedily by shadow and blackness, and remember that they were no more... and that I could not bear.

He had left me enough sorrow to last me throughout the ages of my existence, and it was no less poignant now. Finrod...

I had walked with him under the solace and beauty of the Trees once. Once...

We had found love there, but its promises and our vanished joy were now as desolate as the remnants of the Trees.

Of the home, I thought bitterly. Amarië was a name I upheld all too well, and now even it seemed to taunt me. But what else was I to do? I was Vanyarin, and my people had always remained faithful to the Valar, and loved Aman most. I was entranced yet with Valinor, could not leave. I was of the Calaquendi, how should I dwell among those who were not? And I was afraid. Afraid... afraid to face shadow, to battle fire and ice. My will was no match for Morgoth's, no match for thralldom and death. But that you should endure this entered not into your minds, fool Noldor, not even yours, Finrod! Yes, and you too were eager to go, too eager, to leave, and too confident of swift triumph. You could see it not, would not see, that even then you were his thralls. In your haste you were dismissive of doom. Do you think even now it will not find you, kinslayers? And because I know it will, I weep, weep to think you might have been among these cursed slayers of kin, my beloved... and I weep, because Mandos cannot be gainsaid.

I loved him, the eldest of Finarfin. But I could not leave, not for him, not for any love, for Aman was foremost in my heart, and only near the trees could I be and live happily.

But even Aman holds little joy for me now. I am haunted by the shadow of regret, of longing, the specter of doubt whispering the tantalizing 'what might have come to pass.' What might have come to pass- if I had gone with him.

And every time Tilion waywardly traverses the vault of the stars, I wonder, as many sundered lovers do, if he looks on wandering Isil and the Star-host as I do, remembering.

Remembering me.

Amarië, they call me.

Perhaps. But how can I be of the home, when my heart truly dwells in the keeping of him across the sea, wide and great though it be?

Finrod. I used to question, Why did you go? Why must you bring such pain upon me?

And if you asked the same of me.

Or, were you content with your victories, the realms under your sway -and dare I wonder?- your life with another?

But I received no answers.

Now I simply long to see you once more, to converse with you and clasp your hands, so that you will not depart again.

Once you visited my dreams. We gazed on each other, poured our weary hearts that still longed for what once was out to the other, embraced and kissed as we used to do; only to awake and discover it was but a dream. A dream... did you share it, Finrod?

Or is my love now unrequited?

But there is no vessel to sail me to your side, save if I should leave the land of the living, and no longer dwell among them.

Among the living...

Am I, indeed? For as Arien vanishes from sight every evening, I sense a part of me ebb away with her light, fading with the sunset, lost to an eternity of sorrow. And as the uncounted yen pass, I feel myself dwindle into little more than a shade. A shade that yearns and longs for you, Finrod.

There have been few Quendi who have left Arda's circles, even including those who have fallen now at Morgoth's hand in Endóre. I often list them in my mind, wondering if I shall share their fate, and if my burdened fëa will no longer pace the confines of my fading body, but burst forth to join those tarrying in Mandos. There were those at Cuiviénen, taken by the shadow, but I knew nothing of them, if they had perished, or were thralls of the darkness yet. There was broideress Míriel, the first Queen of the Noldor, who had wed Finwë, (thy grandsire, Finrod) and who had imparted so much of her spirit in bringing forth her son that the remnants were not enough to sustain her, and now lay lifeless in the keeping of Estë. Finwë had followed her, slain by the one his son hated most, the unhappy first to die thus in all of Aman, but not the last...

Fëanor, their son, also journeyed there. Even we in Valinor had seen his fiery spirit as it burned streaking, scorching, as it always had, towards its final destination, dissolving to naught but a trail of ashes.

The victims of the Kinslaying...

And then I feel the stab of grief as I know, in my heart that you are among them who have gone to Mandos, Finrod. Of how and why, I have no knowledge. Do I even wish to know?

I felt your agony in the hour of your death. I sensed your spirit cry out to mine, and leave me behind once again.

Our hearts are still bound, son of Finarfin, though you be claimed by Námo's shadow and I linger on...

But not for long, shall I tarry, Finrod. For this is one voyage I shall not hesitate to make.

And then I shall be Amarië no longer.

To Be Continued... possibly. Possibly. If you think it worth continuing, REVIEW! Otherwise, it will probably vanish into the hordes of one-shots. 


	2. Finrod

**Of the Home **

**by Tark's Work**

A/N: POV shift, Finrod this time. And the angst lives on. Again, I apologize for the tense switching, but it does have a singular- if somewhat unprofessional- distorting effect on the passage of time, which, considering the setting, is not inappropriate. Silmarillion-verse.As always, I heartily appreciate constructive criticism, and reviews in general, really. If I get enough, perhaps I shall make a pie, or a review stew. woot!

Mine? I wish. bows to Tolkien

* * *

I had not known death could be so terrible. Not even in the icy grip of the Helcaraxë- where Death seemed ever poised to snatch away those whose will could not sustain them-had I known such agony, anguish, and sense of life and strength ebb away, nor such a ruddy tide, both rising in fury and receding, murmuring death's secrets in the final breath before oblivion.

Crimson waters… too often have they lapped the shores of my existence.

Rather than a dreamlike, fading sheen, death was accompanied by a heightening of every sensation, every wound, prick of the monster's venomous fangs, every drop of lifeblood flowing from mangled flesh-my flesh- and the aches where the cruel bonds had delved, with an iron bite, into my wrists. Every moment, every instant of pain was intensified, each one testing my resolve to the breaking point.

But I would not yield, and for as long as breath rasped in this parched Elven throat, I would bear the unbearable. My people's greatest strength and weakness, 'tis said, is our Noldorin pride, and we have yet to humbled even by the might of Morgoth, though enthralled or dead many of us are at his hand.

My keen eyes had grown accustomed to the dark of the prison in the time of my captivity but I still could not see the creature, could not help being unnerved by those tormented blazes of eyes, eyes that focused all their malevolent savagery solely on me, always darting to follow my every movement. Then a sudden strike would come, and claw, fang, and foul breath would ruthlessly intimate the lie of the orbs' seemingly disembodied nature. Once again, following the morbid pattern, I parried, too weakly this time, giving it the opportunity to deliver yet another streak of gashed hurt across my chest.

But I fought on, forcing the pain into submission, and beat the monster with the calloused fists- the only weapon against the madness of my foe- that had earned me the name of Felagund. My eyes strayed to the ring, my ring, serpent devouring serpent, and the pledge they signified- the pledge that must be fulfilled, the promise to keep. An oath I too will swear…and none will accuse Finarfin's son of oath breaking, though futility be a bitter companion, and a bitterer enemy than this werewolf.

As my counter-blows weakened and slowed, each more ineffectual than the last, I recalled a time long ago, when I had also made a vow… a vow to return... a vow I fear I cannot keep.

Amarië...

I reach out to you, but you are distant, remote, while the ngaur now defies the dark and is ever more becoming abhorrently clear, the gaping maw with teeth-daggers, obscuring my view of all else. But there would be nothing save darkness to fix my sight on...

My memories of you hold little comfort. For always your saddened eyes- weighted with the burden of a trail of glistening tears, and those lovely wind-tossed golden tresses dampened with the spray of your sea and the one that would soon separate us- reproach me, telling me I should never have left and of the sorrow that devours you as surely as the ngaur does me. And now- now I shall never return.

My love, I am sorry. Sorry that it was I who put the grief in your once mirthful and fiery eyes; that I quelled the laughter that once rang like the sweet song of birds and gladdened Aman. But, Amarië, what I repent most of is that I will not be there to restore it- the spark of love and of the delight with life that once shone through you as though you were one of the eleni. You were older than I -but never solemn, never stern, but joyful and free. You made my heart race as though it was transfigured into one of Nessa's beloved deer. And when you could no longer restrain your joy and burst into dance... how I cling now those memories of you, of a deft, slender image of golden loveliness...

You haunt me even now, Amarië. I saw you, and see you still, fading, in both my dreams and waking thought, saw you dwindle because of my choice...

I regret it, every moment of every day of every yen. But then, then, I deemed the decision simple. Nearly all of my kindred was to depart, those I loved, respected, followed. Lingering would bring me scorn and ignominy and the brand of a coward... departing meant honor, glory, a chance to prove bravery, new realms and hosts to command. And I was entranced, entranced by the thought of endless open lands, lands I could claim for my very own, oh, I longed to know the endless leagues of beautiful open land under the stars that the Moriquendi so loved, the land that moved them as Aman could not…

But what I did not include, what I disregarded like the cruelest of ingrates, proved to be more valuable than all- our love.

For indeed my love for you has not been shaken... through all the battle and tumult that has caused Endóre itself to tremble... even as I wrestle with this creature of Morgoth in the depths of my own utterly fouled fortress. Minas Tirith watches no more, consumed in this devilry of darkness. My heart rages within me, that its light and goodness should be so corrupted...

In calling him Morgoth, at least, you are -were!- not mistaken, Fëanor.

I sense Beren vainly join the fight, valiantly try to divert the ngaur's attention from me, pounding, striking with no weapon save his hands, as do I. But it is no use... no use... for it now hunts me, crazed with its own torment of existence and bestial need for vengeance on its assailant…

But my mind will not be torn from you, Amarië, from the remorse in your eyes and in mine...

I gather all the agony, the sorrow, and repentance into one thought- I love thee yet. Forgive me...

Fond are the Quendi of song... and now, I thought, I will sing, and defy Morgoth and all the hosts of Angband! This time, I will sing, and not fall before the throne.

I sang fair songs (or not so fair, mayhap; my minstrelsy is little to that of most of my kin) and others that sprang to my mind unbidden. If any learn my fate, they shall have no doubts that Finrod Felagund was not vanquished easily. I cannot stop singing, the lays of Cuivénien passed down, the songs we sang in blissful Valinor, Noldorin refrains, even Naneth's bedtime chants ... and a song I knew not, that leapt from my lips in my own forbidden tongue. I sing, and an unseen host takes up the refrain, but it is not Quenyan words that echo and resound, shaking the very foundations...

A Elbereth, Gilthoniel silivren penna míriel o menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-díriel o galadhremmin ennorath Fanuilos le linnathon nef aear, si nef aearon!

Now I summon all the new-found strength the song had brought, the anger and hatred of Morgoth, he who has taken my own tower and imprisoned me within it and will take my life so that I will not see you again. I felt the power of my undiminished love for you ripple in and out of me, and shine and emanate out of me as a burning rage of emotion and might. I beat the wolf furiously with my fists, ripped at the repulsive flesh (even with my teeth, so mad was my sudden rage) madness grappling madness, until I found what I sought, and grasped its throat, crushing, crushing, crushing, until its raking claws and desperate fangs retaliated no more, until it lay lifeless before my feet.

I stood, victorious for but a moment, then toppled, fell upon my foe- wounded, wounded to the death.

Beren rushed to my side and to my succor, as though trying through haste to recompense for his inability to assist in the battle. But there was little he could have done, for my enemy and I had been enveloped in the macabre embrace of mortal combat, and any blows he could have dealt would have just as likely fallen upon me as the werewolf…

My sight was fading, but I could feel the warmth of his hands on the chill of my own body- his hardy, undimmed vitality making a curious contrast to the cold creeping over me.

Even as my fëa was bidding farewell to my hroa, I took my leave from Beren. He had been a stout and faithful companion, as worthy of Lúthien the Fair as any Elf, and if they could freely hold one another in the twilight- as we once held each other, Amarië- that would be well worth this fleeting pain...

"I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the mountains of Aman," I told him, regretfully, as I was slipping away. "It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart." Beren protested, speaking words of Nargothrond, treacherous kin. His eyes deny and his lips move urgently, but I no longer hear him, save for "Orodreth"... forgive me the burden I lay on your shoulders, my brother, you who had no longing for any realm but Aman... forgive me, Aegnor, forgive me, Angrod, that I could not save you from the flames... forgive me, Nerwen, that my going should darken the day you have found here... forgive me the grief I lay upon you, Ada, forgive me, Naneth... forgive me, Amarië.

And then I murmured, to you, my last words concentrating solely on somehow reaching you, repeated them over and over, as though they were an incantation that could overpower Death. "I love thee, Amarië. I love thee yet. And perhaps we shall not now be sundered long. I love thee... I love..."

And with that, loving you to the last, I passed from the darkness to a new gloom.

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**A/N: Well, whaddya think? Worth the wait? I'm guessing you can easily figure out what passages are Tolkien's and which are mine.**


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